


Sight Unseen

by fencer_x



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Figures in white, red piping, cramped Tokyo apartments, and gold medals. Sometimes it's hard to let go.





	Sight Unseen

He's seen this sight before. 

He's a bit ashamed, in retrospect, that that's the first thought that comes to his mind as he watches the figures decked in white pass before him in a long, haunting procession, but it's all he can think.

_You lied._

_I've seen this sight before._

He's seen this sight before, has felt the chill of unease the silent figures carry with them, has winced at Makoto's fingers gripped tight about his wrist. He realizes it's not entirely the same—one boy is not an entire fishing fleet, after all—but the solemn atmosphere is the same, the underlying _meaning_ and _reason_ is the same, and he's still here, standing on the outside looking in as everything bleeds out to monotone shades and life, fleeting and bright, fades away.

He understands a little, he thinks, how Makoto feels now, because he can't wrap his mind around how this element he's always viewed as embracing and accepting, that's given him a place to _exist_ , cocooned away from the bright sharp pain of reality, can take one of its own like that, just rip him from life and pull him down into the dark depths to float silent, out of reach, forever, until the only thing left is this long, silent procession, a few sprigs of incense in the morning and a clanging tinny gong in remembrance.

He doesn't understand how someone _so_ like himself, someone like his mirror self, someone so much _his own_ could succumb like that, and it unsettles, _frightens_ him on some level: if it can take Rin, it can take him, because they're two sides of the same coin, kindred spirits as much as rivals, and if the water can rip Rin away from the world with greedy, clutching claws of panicked bubbles and rushing, choking rivulets, what's to protect Haruka now?

A chill passes over him, colder than the salty breeze wafting in off the bay, and settles at his shoulder, and he rolls it in annoyance, but it doesn't dislodge the ghost.

 _"Sorry,"_ it apologizes softly, guiltily, and Haruka wants to ask what for, but this would just frighten Makoto even more, so he squares his shoulder and locks his jaw and tries not to hear the ghost. He remembers his grandmother saying something about how spirits can snatch away your soul and take root in the husk that is your physical form if you listen to them too closely. He doesn't want that, not even if it's Rin. _"This wasn't the sight I wanted to show you…"_

His lips purse into a thin white line, like the funeral procession.

If Makoto weren't here, he'd give the ghost a piece of his mind. He'd let himself get emotional for once, would rage against the ghost and blame it for _everything_ , because this is _all his fault_. If he hadn't involved Haruka and Makoto and Nagisa in his stupid relay, if he hadn't insisted on _abandoning_ them after all was said and done, if he hadn't disappeared halfway around the world—then Haruka wouldn't have to be here, standing on a little hillock with Makoto's fingers white-knuckled clenched around his wrist and a chilly, formless hand on his shoulder, trying to squeeze with comforting pressure—because everyone needs human comfort sometimes, and the water is losing its allure—but leaving only this dull sensation of loss that makes Haruka wish the ghost hadn't even tried.

Instead, he just tugs Makoto along, beckoning him to follow, because they've watched the funeral long enough, and it's hard to mourn someone who's never going to leave you, even if you want them to. He won't get to experience the relief of loss, won't be allowed to grieve and then move on. Rin's already whispering sweet promises in his ear, like he doesn't even realize he's not supposed to be here, and they're far too tempting, too fascinating—Haruka can feel himself being dragged down as Rin's vows twine about his body like grasping tentacles and draw him down deep into the depths where they can float together in the silent darkness.

"Haru-chan?" Makoto's voice is husky, raw and sensitive from weeping, and he rubs at his eyes with the hand he doesn't have curled into a vice-like grip around Haruka's wrist. "Are we going home now?"

"Yeah," he responds blankly, and frowns in mild irritation as another pair of feet fall into step beside them, rustling the grass lightly and disturbing dusty gravel as they trod along. Makoto doesn't notice—but then, Makoto isn't trying. Haruka only sees these things out of the corner of his eye, forgets Rin is there if he turns away sharply, but is drawn back with silent reminders like the sensation of someone watching him from far away or the faint sound of someone calling his name floating on the wind. All so distant and obscure. _Annoying_.

When Makoto finally releases his grip halfway up the long stone staircase, he looks sheepish, flushing when he sees the red marks he's left on Haruka's arm, but Haruka just shoves his hands into his pockets and starts up the last stretch to his grandmother's house at the top of the flight. He feels eyes on his back, but when he turns back, Makoto is gone.

 _"I'm sorry, Haru,"_ the ghost apologizes again insistently, sitting on the topmost step and watching Haruka mount the final few with growing effort. The air feels thinner, like he can't draw enough oxygen, and he panics for a second because it feels like he's drowning in air, but then Rin continues and everything takes on blessed focus again: _"I have something for you."_

He's panting as he draws up straight at the top of the stairs, staring down at the ghost crouched low, knees bent close to his chest. He doesn't want anything from the ghost—at least nothing he's sure it's capable of giving, but he still engages it in conversation, because it's already working its way inside of him, teasing and tempting with _it doesn't have to end, it doesn't have to be over_ , and his traitorous heart is desperate for something to cling to, some thin red thread connecting them yet. "What?"

The ghost brightens—it's eerie how _alive_ it still feels, like Haruka could just reach out and brush fingers over its knuckles, could slap it hard across the cheek and know that if felt the physical sting as much as the emotional one. It shoves its hand into a pocket of the cargo shorts it's wearing—he wonders distantly if it will ever wear anything else or just be stuck like this, a snapshot in time, forever young—and slowly draws out a pair of goggles. He can't make out the brand—but he doesn't need to. He knows whose goggles these are.

He instinctively snaps a hand out, palm-up, and the goggles drop into his grasp. They're solid, real, and he knows he probably ought to wonder at this, how a ghost can carry around something with real _form_ , but instead he just turns the goggles over in his palm, the silver of the eyepieces reflecting his face—but not Rin's. 

Something prickles at the back of his eyes, and he catches the faint sound of leaves rustling and gravel crunching softly as Rin scrambles to his feet and pulls him into a hug, murmuring, _"No, no no no, you can't cry—because then I'll cry, and you know I look like such a loser when I cry."_ He wishes the embrace didn't feel like heavy fog pressing around him, choking him, wishes he didn't want to shove Rin away and run until his legs gave out, but he does, and while he doesn't cry—it's not who he is, he just doesn't do it—his breath does hitch pathetically, and he can't speak without the words warbling on his lips. The ghost keeps apologizing, begging him not to cry, like this is all that's left of Rin now: _I'm sorry_ and _Please don't cry_. 

Or maybe it's just a reflection of all that's left of Haruka.

* * *

He doesn't quit swimming. He respects the water more now, doesn't just rely on it to give him peace and comfort like before and understands that it's a beautiful, dangerous thing—but he can't stay away, not for long, and it helps that Rin's always there, keeping pace with him on every stroke and screaming into each turn with legs coiled like springs as he fires back the opposite way like a bullet. He bites and nips at Haruka's heels to spur him on, and while it's not the same as before, it's _enough_. 

There's no comforting, solid body next to him that he can see and _deny_ and shove past, but then again, with Rin, the form's only ever been part of the package—and that sheer force of will is not diminished even by being reduced to a shade.

Makoto doesn't like it, tells Haruka there's something different about his stroke, that he looks more desperate now, but Haruka just ignores him—he and Makoto never saw the water the same way before, so it's little wonder they still don't see it the same way now. He can understand Makoto's fear of the water now, but he can't share it. It's hard to fear something when it's so much a part of himself. Just like he doesn't fear Rin, even though he feels he probably should.

He mounts the starting block when it's his turn again and stands up tall and straight, adjusting his goggles over his eyes and tracing the band with fingers, sliding over the rubber to where it grips the back of his head, straining over his swim cap. He digs a finger under the strap and tugs back, pulling the rubber tight, back and back until he worries it's going to shear, and then releases it for a sharp _snap_ against his head. It's like a broad, comforting hand clapping him on the back, a deep gentle voice in his ear saying _you're gonna do great, son_ , except the voice in his ear isn't a father, it's Rin, reminding him to tuck his legs in deeper to his chest on the turn and not be so stiff on the dolphin kick.

Someone gasps softly, and he glances over his shoulder to see Makoto, three back in line, staring at Haruka in silent worry—stark contrast to the bored, blasé expressions of their teammates waiting their turn in the lane. They lock eyes for a moment, and Haruka wonders if Makoto sees Rin like he sees him, this ever-present _presence_ that's always at his shoulder or elbow or leaning into his side. But then Makoto glances away, ashamed, and Haruka turns his attention forward again. It was stupid, snapping the goggles. Foolish and pointless.

But it made him feel better, took away the nausea for just a moment and settled comfort around him like a warm towel after a swim in a chilly pool. Like it was _right_ , and surely something that feels so right can't be all bad.

Makoto approaches him after practice in the empty locker rooms, licking his lips and fidgeting like he wants to say something, can't hold it in anymore, and Haruka watches him with even curiosity, patient—because sometimes Makoto just needs more time to pull himself together than Haruka does, and he's grown used to this annoyance over time such that he doesn't mind it anymore. 

"H—Haru-chan, just…" Haruka raises a brow, then slams his locker shut, ignoring the metal clang echoing off the tiled walls. Makoto snaps up straight and steels himself, but his soft voice betrays the tension in his body. "Those…goggles…" He raises a finger to point them out, as if Haruka could possibly be confused, "where did you get them?"

Haruka's fingers instantly go to the goggles about his neck, tracing the silvered eyepieces as his gaze flickers to the ghost settled on the bench between them, eyes closed and head bobbing along to a beat only it can hear. "They're mine," is all he says, effectively ending the conversation, and snatches up his bag as he stalks past Makoto into the lobby.

* * *

He doesn't quit the swim club, but he stops participating in tournaments his second year of middle school. Makoto seems confused, even presses Haruka for an explanation, but Haruka just reminds him he doesn't care about tournament records or competition. Makoto clearly doesn't like this—and most definitely doesn't understand it—but he folds in the end and lets Haruka have his way, as he always does. He'll never force Haruka to do anything he doesn't want to do, though Haruka often wishes in a deep, dark corner of himself that he would; he wants to be pushed, _shoved_. Wants to be forced out of his comfort zone and into something he isn't prepared for, wants to experience that thrill of panic as he realizes he doesn't know what to do, that he has to think on his feet and react on pure instinct. He wants to feel like he's _drowning_ and the surface keeps slipping away just out of his reach—and then he wants someone jerking him up and out and into an embrace that is _real_ and _warm_ and _solid_. 

Rin can't do it, and Haruka won't let Makoto do it anymore—so he learns to pull himself up and out instead. He'll stand on his own feet, propel himself forward by his own power, and live. For a time.

He runs into Matsuoka Gou in a bookstore; she's a skinny little first-year in a school uniform that looks a size too big on her frame, but her eyes are wide and curious when she recognizes him leafing through a magazine on nutrition while she furtively tries to hide the workout magazine she'd been poring over for the past five minutes. She hastily replaces the magazine and scurries away toward the elevators, and Haruka watches her go silently. He wonders if he ought to have spoken to her—but he isn't sure what he would have said. Probably all the wrong things, and he concludes that this is for the best. He only needs one Matsuoka haunting him, and when he glances to his side, Rin is leaning around him, nearly bent in half at the waist with his nose buried in the magazine Haruka had been leafing through.

He opens his mouth to say—something, he doesn't know what. Maybe _"Didn't you see your sister?"_ or _"Did you want me to tell her anything?"_ But Rin's attention is elsewhere, and Haruka wonders if he even noticed Gou at all, or if this one-track mind he seems to have now is less a product of poor manners and more an unfortunate effect of being tied to Haruka, haunting him as he is for whatever reason. 

He's learned things about the ghost in their months together now. Rin doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, doesn't drink—but he likes to watch Haruka do all of these things, and while initially it was admittedly a bit unsettling, he's grown accustomed to Rin's constant, curious presence, like he's forgotten what it was like to do all of these things himself and can spend hours watching Haruka soak placidly in the tub or nearly burn a mackerel steak or space out during English lessons. 

When Haruka beds down for the night, the ghost slips to its knees and crosses its arms to pillow under its chin as it leans against the mattress on Haruka's bed, lids fluttering shut contentedly and breathing growing shallow, except ghosts don't breathe, and Haruka wonders what it means that the ghost still goes through the motions, makes the effort to keep up the illusion—when that's all it is: illusion. He never asks, though, because it's not terribly important, and he's comfortable with the way things are.

 _"Hey, Haru…?"_ the ghost asks one night, his voice the usual far-away whisper that Haruka has to strain to catch—but they're so close here, and the room is so empty and quiet, it's not all that difficult, and Haruka grunts his attention. _"…Whadya wanna be when you grow up?"_

Haruka's eyes flicker open, and he stares across the smooth stark expanse of his pillow into Rin's gaze, fixed and glittering, hungrier than Haruka ever remembers it being in life. It's like every bit of life left in him, everything not _dead_ or _dying_ or _fading away_ is pooling in his eyes right now, reflecting the moonlight and almost glowing. It's a trick of the light, or Haruka is imagining it, but all he can think is _beautiful_.

He shrugs to himself, voice sluggish with sleep. "…Dunno." He almost asks _what do you want to be?_ before remembering there _is_ no 'growing up' for the ghost, just endless pining and longing and raw emotion, like Rin's been distilled down to his basic elements and chained to Haruka's side—a pitiable existence, if it even _counts_ as an existence. "…You were gonna go Olympic, weren't you?" A short nod, and if Rin is unsettled by the past tense Haruka uses, he doesn't show it. Haruka pauses in consideration for a moment, before scooting back on the bed, making a space. "…You don't have to sleep on the floor, you know."

Rin blinks at him owlishly, the expression rendering him so much younger than his 13-going-on-14 years, and he hazards, _"…I don't need any special place, though?"_ and Haruka wants to argue that it's too late, he's already got a place, and if he leaves now, if he tears himself away from this plane, he's going to take parts of Haruka with him—which, it's going to happen some day. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after that. Maybe in the next 30 seconds. 

But instead, he just lifts the comforter and waits patiently for Rin to duck his head and settle in close, legs drawn up almost to his chest and arms crossed before him as he tries to find a comfortable position. He's cold, chill wafting off of his form, but it's not so bad under the covers, and Haruka slowly drifts off to Rin's slow, steady breathing in his ear. He sleeps the whole night through, peacefully, for the first time in too long to remember.

* * *

"Kind of sad, huh…" Makoto reflects distantly, soaking in the rays beating down on them. It's the last day of club activities, just before summer break, and he, Haruka, and the other third years are about to retire to focus on the last bit of middle school left to them, high school bearing down upon them already. The cicadas are loud and annoying, but there's familiarity here in the stillness of a midsummer's day, and the ghost is still by his side, its chill not tempered in the least by the oppressive heat of the season.

Haruka lists to the side unconsciously, grateful for Rin's presence now if for no other reason than he makes the heat more bearable. "I guess," he responds robotically to Makoto's comment, and he's not just being contrary. He hasn't swum in a tournament in years, not since…before, and while neither Makoto nor Rin nor even Nagisa (though he's clearly had to bite his tongue on several occasions in their interactions since he joined the team) has given him grief over it or even _asked_ why, he can feel it lurking in the corners of their conversations, looming and demanding attention where none are of a mind to give it. 

Makoto just chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head sadly, but Haruka is distracted because Rin has realized that he's leaning his way and has shuffled over to bridge the distance between them, sending a cool wash of miasma or whatever it is Rin's made of now cascading over his skin. He sighs just barely audibly, and Rin snorts his amusement, which only draws a frown from Haruka. 

"…I'll miss you, Haru-chan." Haruka snaps to attention, eyes wide, because Makoto sounds so _sad_ , sad like someone has _died_ , and it's just retirement for third years, it's not like— "I saw…the application. When you dropped it in the post before we headed to school the other day."

The cicadas nearly drown him out—but not quite, and so Haruka can't pretend he didn't hear, has to face this annoyance. He calmly replaces the lid on his bentou box and sets it to the side, hands in his lap and shoulders hunched. "…I was going to tell you."

Makoto snorts. "No you weren't." And from anyone else, it might have sounded disparaging, dry, hurt humor laced with anger and resentment, but from Makoto, it's just speaking the honest truth, because he knows Haruka better than anyone else and can see through his pithy niceties. No, Haruka wouldn't have. The first day of classes would have come at Iwatobi High next April and Makoto would have waited for as long as he could at the base of the steps, eager to head to their new stomping grounds, but Haruka would not have joined him—would be on the other side of town, just rolling out of bed in his dorm room at Samezuka Academy, where he's enrolled for the Spring semester. 

He doesn't really know why he did it; Iwatobi High has no swim team, but they have a pool, and surely if he wanted it badly enough, he and Makoto could get a new team formed with little effort, and Samezuka is a swimming powerhouse, with a legendary team that will likely not tolerate any members refusing to race for the academy's glory in tournaments. It's everything he hates: competition, teams, rigor and structure.

But it's a step outside of his comfort zone, and maybe if he goes there, maybe if he passes over those meaningless boundaries he cloisters himself behind, maybe he'll really finally be _free_. For there is no freedom to be experienced bound as he is to the past, haunted by memories and ghosts he can't bring himself to will away.

"We'll still hang out on the weekends, right? And make sure you eat something besides mackerel now and then, okay?"

"Sure," he lies, and Makoto doesn't call him on it this time.

That night, as he waits for sleep to claim him, he reaches out across the pillow to take a few strands of Rin's hair in hand—they're thin and light as spider's web and feel like grabbing mist, and when he releases them, they flutter back to the pillow in a clump.

"Before…" he starts, and his voice is choked with sleep, so he clears this throat and frowns at himself. "…You asked what I…wanted to do. In the future." 

Rin isn't asleep—he never sleeps, just lies there calmly watching, waiting for Haruka to join him again in conscious reality. He nods silently, and Haruka is glad for it—every time it speaks to him, he feels like he loses a little more ground, lets it gain a bit more sturdy a foothold within him. He _lets_ it happen, because it means they're closer, Rin is that much more a part of him now. 

"…I'm going to go Olympic."

It's not a "want", it's not an "I think". It's fact. It will happen, and he wants the ghost to know. He wants the ghost to have reason to stay with him, because his dream is the ghost's dream, or maybe it's the other way around—regardless, he knows that one of the strongest _pieces_ of Rin left now is that drive and desire and determination that drew Haruka to him in the first place, and he'll be _damned_ if he's going to let that go.

The ghost reaches out, unsteadily, and tries to take a strand of Haruka's hair in its own fingers this time, but it's just a patch of cold brushing over his cheek in the end, goosebumps along sensitive flesh and fluttering lids. 

_"…Okay,"_ the ghost agrees, smiling a sharp, glittering grin that is eerily comforting, and Haruka loses a little more of himself to it, gladly.

* * *

Samezuka is everything Haruka expects it to be—for better or worse. The member he takes for the captain is a brash, fiery ball of excitement and enthusiasm with a glare that can cut steel when he's pissed, so Haruka is a bit thrown when he learns that Mikoshiba is only the vice-captain (though set to take on the captaincy after the third-years retire come summer). 

The ghost is distant and disaffected by all of the changes, his world seeming to extend little beyond Haruka and Haruka's immediate interests. Which Haruka doesn't particularly mind—the ghost is the only remotely familiar thing in this sea of _new_ that he's found himself adrift in, and he is only too happy to give it all of the attention it craves in their down-time. 

He realizes, in the in-between spaces, that Rin is older now. Haruka hasn't noticed him aging, but he has, all the same, and there's some comfort in this change that Haruka is surprised he's able to appreciate: seeing Rin in his young body for the rest of his life would have proven a constant, stinging reminder that nothing is as it seems, that the ghost is just that—a ghost, and that this dream he's chasing isn't his own, is only an echo or some desperate plea to not be abandoned, because he's over the edge, floating in the abyss, and Rin is there with him and his only lifeline. If Rin leaves him, he'll lose himself—he knows this, because he felt part of himself die that day years ago. This is all he has left.

He breaks his vow to stop swimming competitively at Prefecturals. He supposes Rin must know this is _a big deal_ because he's there in Haruka's personal space positively vibrating with energy and excitement, which baffles Haruka because he feels like some of it should be bleeding into him, but all he feels is the same calm collection he always does, a coiled tension that's ready to fire, to snap like the band of his goggles at the back of his head.

 _"You're gonna take this,"_ the ghost assures him, and Haruka realizes it's that same tone he himself used before—the one steeped in surety and stark belief. He's not pumping Haruka up, not trying to get him in the mindset to win; he's telling him _he already has_ , that their journey won't end here, because that's not how this works. This only ends with Haruka on the Olympic podium, a gold medal heavy around his neck and the haunting strains of _Kimi ga Yo_ echoing around whatever stadium he finds himself swimming.

The ghost is with him the whole time—at his side on the starting block, thrumming with anticipation, in his head at each breath, reminding him he still hasn't improved the stiffness of his kick, standing at the pool's edge as he grazes the wall a head before his closest competitor, arm outstretched and a grin on his face—maybe because he knows it's a ridiculous offer, merely symbolic. Haruka averts his gaze and heaves himself up out onto the poolside, and Rin crouches beside him, close and cool and _wrong_ , murmuring, _"Red piping looks good on you…"_

Haruka's head whips around, because it's suddenly _vital_ he see Rin's expression right now—but then his vision is filled with his teammates tugging him to his feet and out of the way of the next competitors, hands coming up to slap his back and shoulders for being the first in his stroke to take them to Regionals.

He's treated to ramen after the tournament, his teammates teasingly nicknaming him _Nanase Iruka_ in light of the record he just set, and it's late—well past curfew—when they finally drag themselves back to the dorms, earning a sound reaming from the dorm head. Haruka's roommate is spending the weekend at his parents' place, and he is therefore blessedly free from having to recount the day's record, able to enjoy a soak in the tub undisturbed. 

Rin sits on the little bath stool with his hair pulled back into a messy, short ponytail, and wisps wriggle free to dance about his face, buoyed by the steam rising from the warm water. He lounges, elbows on his knees and chin in his hand, and just watches Haruka placidly, eyes tracing every line and curve and dip, and while Haruka could usually tolerate this— _has_ tolerated it for the past three years now—tonight, it's uncomfortable. And not the good kind of uncomfortable that he's longed for—that he _misses_ , but…an unease. Like he doesn't understand Rin right now, doesn't understand what _red piping looks good on you_ means or how the lines on his suit have anything to do with aesthetic appeal.

He is Rin and Rin is him and they're supposed to be _the same_ , he and this ghost, so not understanding _it_ is tantamount to not understanding _himself_ , and that's dangerous. He needs to understand, needs to _know_ and be confident in the path he's chosen, and Rin stepping away from their path, even for a diversion, even for a dalliance, means he's got to stop and regroup and figure this out. Time wasted.

The water sloshes in the tub as he shifts around, arms braced against the edge, and he leans forward.

It's not a kiss. Not in the traditional sense. There are no fireworks, no spark of arousal (well, maybe a flicker)—it's just cold emptiness, like shoving his face in a freezer, like kissing a stream of ice vapor. But he can curiously feel when Rin responds, palpable desperation and fulfillment and longing—for what, Haruka can't tell, but it's nice being someone's everything, their reason for existing, with no pressure to _deserve_ it. 

The chill of Rin's fingers over his flesh is an interesting contrast with the thick, oppressive steam of the bath, and in the closeness of the bathroom, the little sounds Rin makes seem overly loud and demanding. With each mumbled, _"Ha…ru, Haru…"_ he yields a bit more ground and loses a bit more of himself, but it's all flowing back into him in the end, give and take, so what does it matter, letting Rin have this, when he'll get it back in the end?

It's emotional masturbation—and then it's real, physically jerking himself off, fingers of one hand twining in the spider's thread silk of Rin's hair while his other works up a bubbling lather beneath the surface to bring himself off. Rin's fingers ghost over his exposed skin, bringing up gooseflesh in their wake and all the while whispering Haru's name desperately—because that's all that's left of Rin now. No more apologies, no more _please don't cry_ ; just _Haru Haru Haru_.

He knows he should probably be ashamed this is all he needs to get off, but Rin isn't, so neither is he.

* * *

He does make some effort to keep in touch with Makoto, initially at least, but Iwatobi High has no swim club—might have, if he'd gone there, but he didn't, so it doesn't—and so there are no polite nods at Prefecturals, no congratulations offered at Regionals. Makoto sees his name on the news after he places second at Regionals (there's a flicker of light, something bright in his eyes just before he brushes the wall—and it distracts, that's all) and texts him congratulations. He sends back a _thanks_ three days later, mostly because he hardly ever carries the phone on him and not because Rin is distracting in brand new ways these days.

"We've got the scout coming in the morning," he grumbles when he feels a chill settle just at his belly button, but he makes no move to turn over or push Rin away—it helps take the edge off, and while he doesn't feel much tension necessarily, he knows it's there, just under the surface, because this is where they start the downhill slide, this is where it's just gathering momentum to barrel forward, crashing through barriers like _scouting exhibition_ and _national team trials_ and _Olympic offers_ with the force of having lived the next few years a thousand times over already and knowing how it all ends.

He shifts onto his side to face Rin—because the ghost's eyes haven't changed in all this time, and while his body is longer and leaner (and two centimeters taller than Haruka), there's still that bright, innocent hunger in his gaze reminding Haruka what he's doing this for, that this is his dream, is their dream, that this body is his body, is their body. His breath comes out in little chilled puffs of exertion when Rin snuggles in close, and his hips buck at the shock of frozen, misty fingers ghosting over his shaft.

His fingers overlap with the ghost's, its touch almost too cold to bear, and this hastens his motions as he works himself off, keeping his eye on Rin because that hunger and drive of Rin's is what's brought this on in the first place, and it's the only way he can achieve any measure of peace: emotional masturbation, he reminds himself, and smiles as his release dribbles over his fingers.

As he sits on the bench the next morning after his time trial, Samezuka windbreaker draped over his shoulders as he chugs down half a pet bottle of water in one go, the scout the team has been trying to impress slips his card into the pocket and congratulates Haruka on a personal best. 

He has his foot in the door, and Rin's elation is catching.

* * *

The apartment they set him up with in Tokyo is cramped, sparse, and perfect. It's a five-minute walk to the nearest station, which is itself only three stops from the training facility he's to report at on Monday, but there's a gym with an indoor pool two blocks away that he's already secured a membership at to use on his off-days. Swimming five days a week, strength training the sixth, resting on the seventh—a rough schedule, but distracting, and that's all Haruka really cares about. He would be content pushing himself even harder, but the team physician has advised against overworking himself by trying to take on a professional swimmer's training regimen when he's not even out of high school yet and urges him to take his time getting used to the pace of Tokyo life.

Haruka wants nothing less than to _get used_ to anything now; regimen and structure and order and tradition are just constricting, choking barriers to his ultimate goal, Rin's ultimate goal, and if chopping off a limb would put him on that podium faster, he'd probably do it. That's all that matters now. 

The ghost doesn't care that they've moved, doesn't mind that the bathtub is cramped and that Haruka can't stretch out and relax like in the dorm, but he must sense Haruka's irritation, because he's more insistent and needy now, more _on-edge_ , like he can sense how _close_ their goal is too and is a dull, dark mirror reflecting Haruka's own sense of urgency. Haruka indulges him when he has the energy—but more often than not, he doesn't, and the ghost never presses for anything but staunchly refuses to yield the space he's laid claim to in Haruka's bed. Haruka wants him there anyway, a cold comfort, so this works out nicely.

Matsuoka Gou comes to see him the day before National Team trials. She's decked out in an Iwatobi High uniform—even though it's a weekend and they're not in Tottori anymore—and explains to Haruka's bewildered expression just who she is and how she found him but never _why_ she's here. Haruka invites her in and pours two cups of barley tea. 

When he pads back into the living area, he nearly drops the tray in his grip—along with the cups of steaming tea—when he sees her settled on his bed with a framed photo in her hands, delicately tracing the children pictured with a fingertip. "…It was his dream."

Haruka recovers beautifully and settles the tray in his low table. "…Yeah, I know."

"He always…he used to say how fast you were, you were the fastest he'd ever seen, you could…you could go Olympic some day, just like him, and you'd swim together on a relay team in front of millions of people. That you'd go…all the way together." Her voice breaks on the last, and she shakes her head and takes a deep breath to collect herself before whirling around and taking the proffered cup from Haruka as she settles down into _seiza_ , her skirt flaring out around her.

"That…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Sounds nice." It does, it sounds more than nice now; he never would have wanted this life before, would have withered on the vine with everything he ever _valued_ about swimming syphoned off for the purpose of competition and glory and acclaim, but now that he's here…he wonders if maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, being here because someone drove him here, called him here, tempted him here…rather than because he felt a guilty sense of duty.

She nods. "…I just…I wanted to…wish you luck, I guess." She traces the rim of the cup with a finger, and a sad smile rises to her lips. "I mean, I figure you're the only one who might really understand how much it meant to him. The Olympics. And—and I know you're not there yet, but—" He glances up, and her cheeks are flushed with emotion, "But I just know you're going to make it, because _he_ knew you would, so, just—" She swallows thickly. "Please…do your best, Haruka-sempai."

He shifts his gaze to the side, and Rin is sitting straight as a board in _seiza_ beside him, staring at her, stiff and silent. A muscle twitches in his face, like a little irritated tic, as he tries, tries _so hard_ to remember who she is and why he feels this upwelling of emotion for her. But he fails, in the end, because after all these years, Haruka is all he has left, all that exists to him, and he feels the ghost's frustration to this end radiating off of him palpably. Frustration because he's just a shadow of his former self, just the last remaining thoughts and emotions of a little boy that drowned half a decade ago, and with time those thoughts and emotions have boiled down to just _Haru Haru Haru_ and bright, brilliant futures that only blind with empty promise.

Gou excuses herself, after shaking Haruka's hand, and wishes him luck once more as she scurries down the steps to hail a taxi along the main thoroughfare. He finds it curious she went through so much trouble for what amounted to little more than a five-minute conversation, but then he supposes people will do most anything when it really matters.

* * *

He manages to avoid having to go back for New Year's for two years before his mother refuses to send him any more packets of the seasoning he loves to use on his mackerel until he promises to take the holidays off to spend time back in Iwatobi, and the trip getting there seems almost interminable. Rin stands the whole time—there are no free seats until the last little local train—and watches Haruka watch the scenery fly by, then stands awkwardly off to the side as his mother prattles on at him when she picks him up at the station. 

Makoto finds out he's home for the holidays through his mother—and less than 24 hours after he arrives, he's watching a rather inebriated Nagisa enjoy being an adult in the eyes of the law and trying his level best to force his glasses-wearing friend ( _"Rei-chan! Get it?? He's one of us!"_ ) to join him in nearly passing out. Makoto tries to make small talk about finally getting a swim team off the ground around the middle of high school but it just not being the same. There could easily be reproach in his tone, but Haruka detects none, and he supposes Makoto made his peace about Haruka's life choices long ago. 

"I heard you made the national team; congratulations." Haruka just shrugs, and Makoto assumes he's being modest, snorting softly. "Aren't you the youngest?"

"No," he responds shortly; he hates being taken for a prodigy or a genius or any of that drivel. He just likes to swim, that's it. If everyone else just has issues narrowing their world down to that brilliant dot of focus, that's their problem, not his. He's not special just because everyone else is marginally less capable. He's passed his 20th birthday—it's finally time to be _normal_.

It's as they're pulling on gloves and hats, Nagisa paying off the bill inside, that Makoto drops his voice and suggests, "…We're all going to visit Rin-chan's gravesite tomorrow." Haruka freezes—blood going cold, and you might think he'd be used to the cold, after all these years with the ghost, but he's not, not to cold brought on by _fear_ and _panic_ , and he almost doesn't catch Makoto's soft accusation of, "…You haven't been, have you? Not…well, ever?"

What's the point in going to a grave; anything he's ever had to say to Rin, he's had the ghost for. He's raged and snapped and ignored it in turn, and none of it ever helps. How could doing any of that to a cold, lifeless marker make more difference? At least with the ghost, he can pretend, and sometimes the expressions it makes are just lively enough, just _Rin_ enough to fool him for a few precious moments. 

Visiting the grave might do him good, he reasons—maybe closure is what he needs. Maybe it will help loosen the vice-like grip the ghost has on him, help him regain some of himself and realize that this isn't healthy. He ducks a nod to Makoto, who rewards him with a bright, relieved smile, turning and waving at Nagisa and Rei to join them—that Haruka's going to come with them the next day. They make plans to meet up at noon at the temple on the hill, and Nagisa promises to show them an amazing new ramen place that opened last month in Tottori-shi.

Haruka is on the first train back to Tokyo the next morning, old cracking swim goggles clutched tight in his fist. He deletes the text he gets from Makoto at 12:15 without reading it.

* * *

Trials for the Olympic team are still a year-plus away, but this does nothing to temper Haruka's training regimen. He reserves the pool at the local gym for a half-hour each evening, just before closing, which the owner is only too happy to do for a national athlete—and uses the solitude to coax the ghost into swimming with him. His times are slipping of late, and he needs a _push_ —that fire only Rin can fan—to urge him on. 

They make ridiculous wagers over the outcome of the race—if Rin wins, Haruka has to eat pudding tonight and let Rin watch, because it's ever so much more interesting than mackerel or leeks; if Haruka wins, Rin will treat him to that blessed vacant pressure that's impossible to describe, flicks of wintry breath across flushed, swollen flesh as he goes down on Haruka; if Rin wins, Haruka will rent the next volume of the marine animal documentary series they've been watching that night instead of this coming weekend; if Haruka wins, Rin will stop ruffling up women's skirts for fun and blaming it on Haruka.

Racing the ghost isn't quite like racing Rin was—because the ghost is never going to _be_ Rin, even if it _is_ everything Rin ever was condensed into a ball of raw emotion and need and desperation—but it's close enough, enough of a challenge to push Haruka and instill in him that shudder of worry that someone is closer, more in-tune with the water than he. The ghost is not Rin, but it's every bit as amazing a swimmer as Rin was, and Haruka can work with that.

The certain knowledge that the ghost didn't cut him any slack makes his victory all the sweeter, not because he wanted to win, but because he _needed_ grounds to make a demand, and after he mops his body free of excess water, he drapes the towel around his neck and corners the ghost against the line of lockers. It lets him, even though it looks confused and almost _worried_ at being maneuvered like this, and that sends a thrill of power dancing through Haruka. If the ghost lets him do things like this, it means it wants it on some level—means _Rin_ might have wanted this; power in the pool, prostration out. 

He fingers a few strands of its wispy hair, as delicate and fine after the race as before. There are no rivulets of water dripping down the line of the neck to lick away, no urge to hit the showers together to rinse the chlorine from their bodies. The ghost is as powerful a swimmer as Rin…but it's not real.

Still, this reminder doesn't stop Haruka from swallowing thickly and flicking his gaze over the open body before him. "One thing…"

 _"One thing,"_ it echoes, tone almost disappointed.

Haruka closes his eyes and leans forward until he felts the chill of connection brush over his forehead, hanging there and just soaking in the closeness. "…Don't leave me. Don't ever, ever leave me. Please."

It's been too long, the ghost is too much _his_ now, as much a shade of himself as of Rin, and he can't bear the thought of living on in this ruined life he's sacrificed if he didn't at least have _this_ to hold on to. 

The ghost cocks its head to the side enough to duck in close and brush its lips over his, something it probably learned from him, because he can feel its confusion and worry washing over him. _"Never, Haru. Haru. Haru."_ His name echoing off Rin's lips reminds him that he just wasted a wish; the ghost was never going to be able to leave him anyway.

* * *

He's assigned a manager—or the team is, rather—after the Olympic team is chosen at the trials in early summer. They're not as strong a line-up as the Americans or Australians, but the coach is confident they'll be able to give them hell, especially in their individual strokes. What he means, of course, is Freestyle, and Haruka understands he should probably feel nervous, the hopes and dreams of a country resting on his shoulders, but there's no point—it's just going through the motions, swimming like he's supposed to and letting the water carry him up to the podium. Carry _them_.

The manager is an excited little thing that reminds him of a less-confident Nagisa, and the echo of kinship he feels with the young man—Taniguchi-san—helps him tolerate the line-up of interviews in all manner of media and discussions of endorsement deals "should things pan out positively". Which translates to, "if you medal," and Haruka isn't looking forward to that, but he has more immediate issues to address first.

Like the fact that Makoto is in his den right now, sitting across the little low table from him, and trying to pretend he isn't fully aware that they haven't spoken in years, haven't spent more than an hour in each other's presence since high school.

"Your place looks nice," he compliments, glancing around for show, as if he's really turned up out of the blue three days before his team checks into their hotel near the Olympics Aquatics Centre before opening ceremonies to comment on the lovely checkered curtains Haruka's hung over the kitchen window.

"I suppose," he allows. "I don't really spend much time here."

"Mmm, I figured," Makoto chuckles softly, and leans onto the table, arms crossed before him as he looks Haruka over. Accustomed as he is to being watched—it's all the ghost ever does some days—he feels like a fly under glass right now, and it makes him uncomfortable. "…We miss you, Haru-chan."

"…Don't call me '-chan'," he offers reflexively, and Makoto nods with a soft smile. "…Sorry."

"…Nah, I guess we all…kind of saw it coming." And Haruka has no idea what that means, but before he can question it, Makoto changes the subject. "So—what're you gonna do? After the Olympics, I mean." He assumes (correctly) Haruka will get what he came for and not respond with, "start training for the next Olympics"—mostly because he's always known Haruka better than he knows himself, and it's at this point that Haruka wonders if maybe he should have explained to Makoto years ago about the ghost. He's been trying to deal with it himself, all this time, and it's gotten him where he wants to be, but not necessarily where he _needs_ to be. Nothing about where he's wound up is right—but it _feels good_ , the path of least resistance. 

"…Not sure," he responds truthfully, because he's never bothered to think past his upcoming races, and it's a little frightening, because once he's fulfilled this dream, then he'll have to think of a new one, and Rin's dream has always been the only one he's ever had, it was _his_ , so if he's forced to find something new…he's not certain he'll be able to do it. And he doesn't trust anyone else but Rin to do it for him. 

"…Well, I'm sure you'll think of something," Makoto reassures, and Haruka wonders if he's just saying that to be nice, or if he really doesn't understand that it's just not that easy. "You could always coach at the swim club back home." Haruka mulls this over with a frown—before promptly placing it from his mind. Too constricting, too restraining. Though he _is_ good with children, he's been told. Makoto must recognize his thought process in his features, for he laughs more genuinely now. "Or not—it's just a suggestion. Think it over."

"…I will," he agrees, and it's not a lie this time. But he won't make any promises, because nothing's certain after the fanfare dies down and the shine from his medal fades.

Nothing except for the ghost—and as if in response to his thoughts, it shuffles closer and rests its head on his shoulder, turning so it doesn't have to see Makoto. He wonders if it physically pains the ghost, being faced with these reminders of Rin's life; it's strange that the ghost can seem unable to function without Haruka (the feeling is mutual) and yet can't bear the frustration and temptation of old friends or his own family.

Haruka offers dinner—mackerel steak, of course—and Makoto accepts, but professes a need to make an 8 o'clock bullet train. He's only in Tokyo to visit an old professor who's recently transferred to Waseda and thought he'd drop in for old time's sake while he was at it. 

"I've got tickets to your race, though—we all do, actually. Nagisa and Rei and me." Haruka is startled—ashamed he hadn't thought to offer to try and get them tickets himself, but Makoto doesn't seem to have minded the effort, and he simply ducks his head in apology. "Gou-chan was going to—ah, Matsuoka Gou? Rin-chan's sister, you remember her?" Of course, of course he does. "She was the swim team manager, back in high school—and we invited her along too, but I think she was just going to watch with her mother on TV." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I think…I think maybe she's still a little shaken. About you doing this, when it was always…you know."

He knows, better than Makoto, but he just nods silently and shuffles into the kitchen to unwrap the mackerel steak he bought on sale the night before.

He's…glad, he realizes. Glad that they'll be there—watching him. Someone needs to, after all, and Rin's always been enough, watching him all this time, but there's something different about these others bearing witness. He wants outsiders to see him swim—and to realize what he's swimming for. To understand why he had to leave them, why he has to do this. It's not enough to be the only witness, for Rin to be the only one that understands. He's missed them, more than they've missed him probably—and he just needs someone, someone who _matters_ , to _remember_ this.

* * *

The whole thing is over before he even realizes it. 

One minute he's snapping the band on his goggles for the finals—they're not the same, not _Rin's_ , but it's the ritual that matters to him now more than the cracked rubber lining and the scratched silver of the eyepieces—and sliding down the zip on his team jacket and the next he's struggling to catch Rin's desperate _"Haru! Haru!"_ over the roar of a crowd pressing in on him, compounded by the deafening din of the stadium and a booming announcer mangling his name for the English-speaking audience. There are bright flashes all around, and it takes a moment for him to realize it's not the sight, it's not Rin, it's _camera bulbs_ leading him to a future altogether unsettling and uncertain rather than brilliant and promising like the one Rin showed him years ago.

He tugs his swim cap off, glancing around in a panic for Rin—but there are still too many people, and he's being shuttled into a corner for post-race interviews while the medal ceremony preparations are finalized. 

It feels…he isn't quite sure. But he's certain he thought it would feel more…fulfilling. Isn't that what realized dreams are supposed to feel like? Like the end of a long journey, with victory grasped and defeat defeated? He wishes he could see Rin right now, because maybe Rin's excitement would echo into himself and he could _feel_ it, relish that sensation delivered so raw and unadulterated.

But he's practically hoisted onto the podium as _"Kimi ga Yo"_ echoes around the stadium, just as he always imagined, and he supposes that this was never about himself anyway, so what does it matter if it's not quite what he imagined? It's enough. It has to be.

There are more two-minute interviews from a half-dozen Japanese networks and a few international outlets through interpreters—everyone wants a piece of the first Japanese athlete to take gold in the most-anticipated swimming event in the world in nearly a century—and he thinks he catches sight of Rin beyond the glare of a camera lamp at one point, but when he blinks to bring the figure into focus again, he's gone.

Taniguchi-san is motioning for another outlet representative—Fuji TV, it sounds like—to come forward for their turn, but Haruka takes him aside and mutters that he isn't feeling well, would like to rest back in the hotel for the rest of the afternoon, and maybe if Taniguchi-san had a bit more backbone, he'd remind Haruka that they already discussed what would happen in the event that he medaled, but he doesn't, and he's blinded by the excitement of the moment, so he just ducks his head, "Of course, of course," and ushers Haruka out of the stadium into a waiting area while another team assistant hails a taxi.

He almost wants to _cry_ at the welcome rush of chill over his exposed skin when he flops onto the freshly made mattress back in his hotel room. Rin is running light fingers over his bare shoulder where he whipped off his team jacket the moment he'd stepped over the threshold, shutting the door to the room in his handler's face, and he shifts around onto his other side so he can finally see Rin's expression.

And it's an impossible one—like some wild amalgamation of joy and despair and shock and awe and so much love Haruka isn't sure his heart can handle it, can feel it beating in an unsteady rhythm against the barrel of his chest. His skin still vibrates where Rin touches it, and he reaches out to trace the fine line of the ghost's chin, marveling at the murky solidity, like it's just shy of living flesh. "I did it," he reminds, as if perhaps Rin hadn't been watching the whole time. He's learned the comfortable weight of the ghost's gaze and felt it on him through the whole hundred meters just as surely as he felt the give and pull of the water.

 _"Of course you did,"_ it answers back, shuffling closer, so that their legs might twine together if they were solid. _"…We would've been great together."_

"Yeah…yeah. We would've." And he means it, in all the different ways he possibly can. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply, furrowing his brow and wondering how long it will take for his heart to stop its worrying palpitations. "…Taniguchi-san's already got me lined up for interviews tomorrow morning. Variety show spots, even."

_"And then there'll be poster campaigns and training offers and everyone will know your name…Haru."_

He lets his eyes flutter open at this, frown deepening in irritation. "…Yeah. So annoying…" He doesn't want it, never has. Fame is just an ugly by-product of doing his best, being as in-tune with the water as he can be. He got the medal—it's tucked inside his gym bag next to a baggie holding his goggles and swimcap—and that's all he cares about, not because it means he's a _champion_ but because it means he's made Rin's dream come true, the only way he knows how. He doesn't want interviews, doesn't want people harassing his family and friends, doesn't want campaigns and contracts and _What's next for Nanase Haruka-san?_

He just wants Rin and the water and _peace_.

 _"Hey…"_ Everything comes back into focus, and he forces his eyeline up to the ghost's—that beautiful flicker of promise still there after all these years. _"…You wanna get out of here?"_

And he knows, instinctively, Rin isn't suggesting they go back to the apartment.

Haruka thinks about Makoto, about Makoto's fingers curling into the hem of his shirt and tugging him close, desperate for comfort and reassurance that he doesn't think he was ever able to effectively offer, and he regrets this.

He thinks about Nagisa—and even Rei—and the relay team they might have made together. They would've been great probably, maybe even better than before with practice. But even without the ghost, Haruka could never have tolerated it, so it would've been a doomed effort from the start. Wasted potential—just like now.

He thinks about Gou and wonders if she watched the race. What she's feeling right now. He's pretty sure her cell phone number is buried in his contact list, and he could probably get it from Makoto if it wasn't, but he shutters the idea instantly. If she watched, then she understands everything he could possibly say to her already.

And he thinks about Rin. Not the ghost, but the Rin he used to know. The Rin who practically forced him into a relay, who showed him a sight he'd never seen before. Who disappeared before he could commit it to memory. He wonders if he'll ever have the chance to see that Rin again, or if he'll be stuck with this shadow, this pale imitation forever. He thinks it would be enough—at least he can imagine, can fool himself for a time—but he's so tired right now. He wants to stop pretending.

That swim coach job Makoto suggested…maybe it wouldn't have been so bad. He wishes he'd given it more thought, but he didn't, and now he just wants to rest.

He's been pushing himself beyond the limits of human endurance for years—and now that those efforts have finally born fruit, he just wants to relax.

He nods faintly, but then the ghost already knew what his answer would be. "Yeah, Rin. I do."

The ghost settles in even closer, and this time, it's warm and comfortable, like snuggling in under a kotatsu after a long day.

* * *

"Didn't I tell you?" Rin bends down and picks up half a shell that's washed up onto the beach, tossing it up in the air a few times before snatching it in his grasp—then tossing it to Haruka a few strides behind him.

Haruka struggles to catch the shell, frowning when his butterfingers drop it back into the crisp, white sand, and he squints in the glare of the sun, raising a hand to shade his eyes. "Tell me?"

Rin shoves his hands into his pocket and waits for Haruka to shuffle through the sand to fall into step next to him, removing one to reach out and lace their fingers together. Their arms swing between them in uneven tempo, and Haruka diverts his attention to the bright blue breakers crashing against some unknown shore in never-ending lines.

"That I'd show you a sight you'd never seen before." Haruka glances back around, frowning curiously as Rin peers over at him from under the shade of a black ball-cap. His knowing leer is borderline irritating, but Haruka can't seem to muster his usual frustration and instead just takes in the long white beach on a backdrop of brilliant green, soft cries of gulls filling the air against the ever-present din of waves breaking against the shore.

It's paradise. "Yeah, you did." He puts a tiny bit of force into his fingers for reassurance before releasing his grip and darting forward, tugging down the zip of his jumper and tossing it to the side as he makes a break for the waterline. Rin's voice is a loud, bright laugh echoing across the empty beach, shouting his name as he chases after—and Haruka thinks he could listen to it for eternity.


End file.
